‘May I ask you a question—a personal one?’—he just touched the volume before him.
The heavy brows were bent upon him, suspicious, inquiring. ‘What question?’
‘Are you of the Reformed Church?’
‘Why should you doubt it?’
‘I do not. It is only the evidence of so many of your books that moiders me.’
‘It befits a Judge of law, child, to hear the evidence on both sides, and it befits a judge of beauty to prize beauty above dogma. I am not so stern a convert but I can allow some virtues to the faith I have abandoned.’
‘You were once a Papist, then? And was Jane Middleton a convert too?’
He had said it, and boldly, stiffening his neck; yet he might have hesitated, had he foreseen its effect upon the other. Quentin Bagott rose with a staggering motion from his chair; his features worked painfully; he stood breathing heavily, a hand to his throat.
‘Uncle!’ cried the boy, aghast.
‘What was that you said?’